


(i want you) i'll colour me blue

by orthogonals



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Arthur Pendragon Returns (Merlin), Canon Compliant, Christmas Fluff, Getting Together, Immortal Merlin (Merlin), M/M, Modern Setting, Mostly Fluff, Post-Canon, Protective Merlin, merlin isnt irrevocably damaged, not that much angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-01
Updated: 2019-08-06
Packaged: 2020-07-28 12:30:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20064049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orthogonals/pseuds/orthogonals
Summary: Arthur Pendragon comes back from the dead-- supposedly to save the world, but mostly just to decorate Christmas trees, analyseThe Breakfast Club, critique American post-Impressionism, and generally act utterly domestic with Merlin.---OR: 5 times Arthur sees blue after he returns, + 1 time Merlin sees gold.





	1. i can't say no

**Author's Note:**

> This is basically just fluff, so read on if you want something soft for your day!

When Arthur comes to, the first thing he notices is the snow. Fluffy white powder swirls in the air, piling in heaps on the frozen ground and leaving puddles on his bare skin.

The second thing he notices is that he’s completely naked.

“Fuck,” Arthur hisses through clenched teeth. The biting cold hits him like sharp knives carving at his bones, and he frantically rubs his shoulders and huddles inward in a bid for warmth. Around him, ice and snow stretch out and turn blurry on all sides, unnervingly placid and iridescent in the moonlight. Distantly, Arthur can almost make out something whistling through the air, landing with a soft thump.

A passing wind knocks him into a squat, teeth chattering and tremors wracking bodily through his frame. He stares down at his rapidly freezing extremities and wonders how he always manages to land himself in these situations.

Arthur’s mind feels bleary and soupy, a jumble of thoughts and pictures that don’t string together into anything coherent. Where is he? How did he get here? Struggling to focus, Arthur closes his eyes, momentarily pushing aside the mounting snowstorm and his rapidly developing hypothermia. A hazy image of a tear-streaked face and barren, oppressive branches swims into view. Avalon. Merlin.

“Fuck!” Arthur yells, louder, clenching his teeth together to stop the trembling. Wasn’t he dead? He blinks, rolls back his shoulders. Sniffles. Quickly laps at a stray snowflake with his tongue. So, alive then. Though—Arthur pauses to take stock of the frigid air cutting away at his flesh— probably not for long.

_What_ is going on? Sights and sounds still mist at the edges of his consciousness, but they drift away whenever Arthur tries to reach out with searching thoughts. Arthur groans with shivers and frustration.

Right, then. Deciding he's in no position to have a drawn-out session of soul-searching, Arthur pulls himself up to his warrior’s height, carefully scanning the area around him. He’s pretty sure he’s on some frozen body of water, but he can’t see where the water ends and land begins. Most of the scenery devolves into inky darkness past a few footsteps, and whatever features might have been otherwise visible are covered by the falling snow. Arthur grits his teeth and trudges hesitantly forward, surprised that his feet miraculously haven’t frozen stuck onto the ice. King and knight that he is, it’ll take more than a winter and an unfortunate lack of clothing to stop him.

“Arthur! Are you here? Arthur!”

His name, though tinny and distorted in the wind, snaps Arthur to attention, and he swivels sharply around, the movement causing him to teeter dangerously.

“Get me out of here!” He yells back, somehow managing to sound imperious despite being trapped arse naked in a blizzard. Virtual stranger the voice may be, but even Arthur wasn’t so stubborn as to refuse help in his current predicament.

“Arthur? Arthur? Arthur!” Someone half runs, half stumbles into his field of vision, and Arthur barely gets a good look at the person before arms latch onto him and pull him down into a crushing embrace. They both tumble haphazardly to the ground, Arthur taking the brunt of the fall and how was that even fair? He opens his mouth to complain—who do you think you are get off— but the warmth of another body burns over him in a wave, and he only manages a strangled garble before sagging limply into the lovely heat. He tips his head up, not sure whether he should thank or tell off this mysterious savior, and—

“Merlin?” Arthur’s voice cracks. Merlin’s face, sharp and pale and delicate, looms into focus above him. The moon backlights the curls framing his head, longer and more unruly than Arthur remembers, and a scatter of stubble runs around his mouth. Still, Merlin looks achingly familiar, like a wraith from a past lifetime— but that didn’t make sense because Arthur was still in _this_ lifetime.

Merlin’s crying—typical, the girl— tears dropping and freezing before hitting Arthur in shards. His hands run across Arthur’s face, his hair, his chest, as if making sure Arthur was real.

“Arnd yo ahkau?” Merlin asks desperately, then winces, finally noticing Arthur’s state of undress. “Yonr frean!” He quickly shrugs off his coat, bundling it tightly around Arthur. Giving Arthur an apologetic look, he waves his hand briefly in the air. As his eyes flash gold, a pulsing blue sphere materializes, radiating heat like a campfire.

Arthur, indeed, does flinch a bit at the magic. Between the dying and the waking and the almost dying again, he had forgotten the criminal that is his manservant. But when the sphere drifts towards them and _envelops _them both, sending Arthur into a sea of blissful warmth and levitating them off the rapidly melting ice, Arthur finds he has little to resent.

Merlin turns his head back towards Arthur, tugging the oddly puffy overcoat even more snugly around his shoulders. “Betau?”

“Merlin, I’ve always known you were an idiot, but I thought you could at least speak properly.”

At the words out of Arthur’s mouth, Merlin’s eyes widen almost comically, touching a slender finger to his lips. Arthur begins to instinctively track the movement, but Merlin speaks again, driving Arthur’s sight back up.

“Sorry— old language—” Merlin mouths around the syllables like something unpleasant, and his speech falls heavy and awkward.

“By the gods, Merlin, are you quite alright?” Arthur questions, mildly concerned. He didn’t mean it at first, but now Merlin_ really_ sounded like someone had dropped him on his head as a baby with a bit too much enthusiasm.

“Wait. Spell.” Not giving Arthur a chance to protest, Merlin places a hand on Arthur’s chest, and Arthur barely registers what he’s doing before his eyes spark gold. Tingling spirals shoot into Arthur, crawling around in his lungs and climbing up to his throat. He hunches down and coughs, appalled that he’s somehow not even afraid, just slightly anxious at the searing now spreading to his tongue. Just as he’s considering breaking out of the bubble and scooping up some snow to cool his mouth, the prickling swiftly vanishes.

“Better now?” Hands probe gently at Arthur, and he straightens up to Merlin’s earnest expression.

“Yeah.” Arthur replies, too confused and disoriented by the magic’s abrupt halt to reproach Merlin. His ears feel clear and unclogged, his mouth finally unstuffed of the cotton that he didn’t even notice had stuck his tongue. Arthur shifts, propping himself into an upright position. Dimly, he’s aware of icy landscape passing them by as the sphere floats across the frozen water. He rubs absentmindedly at his temples. “What happened?”

Worry drags at Merlin’s face. “You don’t remember? You died. And—” He waves a hand helplessly in the air. “—you’re back now.”

“Last I remember, the crops weren’t yet ready for harvest.” Arthur squints at Merlin. “So I’ve left Camelot half a year?”

Merlin swallows drily. “Arthur,” he whispers, and Arthur’s so taken aback by the sudden fierce pain lancing through Merlin’s features that he has a wild urge to tell him to forget it, that they’ll figure it out once they’re back. “It’s been a long time.”

“How long?” Arthur hates himself for asking, sees the sorrow crack open and seep out of Merlin’s skin, but he has to know. “Tell me. How long?”

“Fif—” Merlin chokes, voice hoarse. “Fifteen hundred years.”


	2. though the lights are on

“Drink up,” Merlin commands, slamming a mug of hot chocolate on the table. Arthur jerks his head up, startled, looking warily at the steaming liquid.

“Trust me. It’s good.” Merlin promises, hoping that the can of Cadbury in his cupboard hadn’t gone bad and that the cow a few towns over wouldn’t miss the milk. He slides the mug over, then gingerly lowers himself onto the chair opposite of Arthur.

Still eyeing the mug suspiciously, Arthur leans forward, cat-like, and takes a small sip. Merlin grins as Arthur’s face immediately breaks into a flush of pleasure.

“Shit, that’s _amazing_. Could’ve used one of these back in Camelot.”

Merlin simply quirks an eyebrow at him, a silent I-told-you-so. He watches as Arthur continues to slowly drink the chocolate, rolling the flavour around in his mouth, and a palpable silence settles around them. Dusty ceiling lights cast the room in a dim yellow, setting shadows flickering across Arthur’s features. A solemn air seems to hang thick in the atmosphere.

It’s hard to reconcile the man who had once donned glinting mail as a second skin and carved through flesh and bone with the one before him, blonde hair mussed, nose red, a furry blanket drawn around his shoulders. Arthur’s sporting felt Manchester United bottoms with an old nightshirt of Merlin’s stretched too tight across his chest, and the sight makes Merlin’s heart lurch uncomfortably. Fifteen hundred years had done little to dull the kick in Merlin’s pulse at Arthur’s proximity.

Merlin taps his fingers restlessly onto the seat of his chair. The worn wood rubs into grains beneath his nervous touch, and he hopes Arthur isn’t too put off by the accommodations. It’s been a few months since he’d last stayed at Avalon, and the dust and dead bugs seem to have piled up at triple their normal rate. With Arthur sitting at his kitchen table, it’s hard not to berate himself for failing to keep the fridge full and cupboards stocked, prepared at a moment’s notice. As a practical matter, though, Merlin couldn’t slip away from the clinic more often than months at a time, and he didn’t trust any of the oldies here to look after his property. And Arthur— well— he hadn’t shown any signs of returning soon.

Nothing, for more than a millennia— and Merlin thinks it almost without bitterness. Then a dark and stormy night sends Arthur Pendragon bursting through his door. Merlin’s seized with the urge to grasp Arthur’s hands and probe at his face to make sure that he’s _real_, not just some apparition haunting him from his past, from the period when Arthur’s crazed grin greeted him every time he closed his eyes. Now, freshly scarred wounds reopen under the knife of Arthur’s warm hands and open eyes, and Merlin wants nothing more than to just hold Arthur close, to press tear-soaked apologies into his skin.

Across the table, Arthur suddenly catches Merlin’s stare with a steady gaze of his own. Unsaid words and unanswered questions thrum in the air between them, but neither seem willing to tear through the quiet.

“So, Albion’s in danger?” Arthur breaks first, furrowing his brows.

“Not necessarily.” Merlin rests his cheek on an upturned palm, willing down his inner turbulence to address Arthur with a steady head. “I’ve thought a lot about it— well, I’ve had the chance, you know— and need doesn’t always equate to peril. Perhaps you _are_ here to help us face a threat. Perhaps not. Maybe there’s just some event, somewhere, sometime, that needs you to tip it in the right direction. Butterfly effect and all that.”

Arthur just squints at Merlin, looking confused. Fondly, Merlin recalls the jibes he had always thrown at Arthur for thinking too hard.

“Some appreciation they showed me.” Arthur says at last, words laced with anger. “Kick me up from the grave into a bloody snowstorm.”

“Actually, I don’t think that was a coincidence. It’s been _years _since it’s snowed here. In October? Probably unheard of.”

“The fates would bless my resurrection with a blizzard? I’m honoured.” Arthur intones, deadpan. Merlin snorts lightly.

“I mean, it sounds pretty wrong-footed, but this area is decently populated. Imagine a little kid watching your royal arse rise up out of the water. What _horror_—” Arthur gives Merlin an exaggerated grimace. “—at least with the storm, no one could see you. Well, no one except me, that is.”

“Hm. I suppose I should thank you?”

“I always welcome the appreciation.”

Arthur pretends to think, before raising an eyebrow in challenge. “I think I did enough thanking before I died.”

Merlin flinches, and Arthur’s teasing expression drops, face contorted with sudden worry. But the familiar slicing agony that Merlin expects to follow any mention of Arthur’s death doesn’t come, and he’s left gasping for breath he hasn’t lost. Because Arthur’s here, really here, teasing and joking and trying to strike that balance they had before, before lightning and Mordred and confessions at the deathbed. And picking up right where they had left off, Merlin could almost forget that Arthur had gone, hadn’t always been here, slyly grinning by his side.

“You’re right. There’s been enough of that.” Merlin says with a soft smile. Arthur returns a relieved crinkle of the eyes.

“So. You live here, in this odd establishment?” Arthur ventures after a slight pause, spreading his hands around.

“Not really. It’s a holiday home, of sorts. Not very well-lived in.”

“You have multiple homes? Have you finally managed to earn yourself a title?”

“I _told _you, Arthur,” Merlin rolls his eyes, just to make Arthur bristle, “the world doesn’t work like that anymore. Honestly, there’s so much you need to be filled in on. I don’t know how we’re going to manage it.” The chair creaks as Merlin kicks at it with his feet more vigorously than he intended.

“Merlin.” Arthur reaches under the table, stilling Merlin’s leg with a hand. The intensity of his gaze pins Merlin to his chair, and Merlin’s breath gets caught somewhere in his lungs. “Let’s save that for later. What about you?”

Merlin shrugs, hopefully coming off as nonchalant.

“There’s not much to tell.”

Arthur looks unimpressed. “You’ve been alive more than a thousand years. C’mon, Merlin, even you aren’t so boring. How many wives? Kids?”

And because Merlin really doesn’t have the emotional capacity to deal with that question right now, he just shrugs again and gets up.

“I’ll regale you with my bawdy tales later. Let’s get you to sleep. You almost caught your death out there.”

Pouting and seeming slightly put out, Arthur hesitates. But at Merlin’s insistence, he sighs and rises, letting himself be led to the bedroom.

*

Merlin flips onto his stomach, tapping the screen on his mobile. 5:42 am. He almost wishes he hadn’t been sickeningly hopeful enough to buy a home with two bedrooms, back when he’d returned to Avalon to find the land commercialized and his cottage razed down with a note that claimed compulsory purchase. Maybe with a single room, he could’ve somehow convinced Arthur into sharing the bed. Maybe they could’ve relived the nights they’d spent together on some quest or another, pressed shoulder to shoulder on wet grass and hard earth.

Still, in his bed or not, Arthur’s very presence keeps sending spikes of energy through Merlin, a reminder that pulls at Merlin’s mind whenever exhaustion threatens to reel him under.

He swipes at his phone, entering the password twice before it lets him in. Hovering over Safari, he sighs and launches a browser window, navigating to Google.

_Best short European History textbooks_

_How to explain electricity for kids?_

_Primark mens_

Merlin’s flipping through Primark’s selection of turtlenecks and imagining how each one would look on Arthur when the door bursts open.

“Christ—” Merlin’s phone clatters against the hardwood, the sounds ringing eerily through the darkness. He fumbles for it, turning on the torch and waving around it in the general direction of the entrance.

“Turn that thing off!” Arthur’s voice yelps from the doorway.

“Arthur?” Merlin lowers the brightness, picking out Arthur’s disheveled face in the light. “What are you doing?”

“I couldn’t sleep.” Arthur wavers a bit at the door, but gathers himself and walks into Merlin’s room, plopping next to Merlin on the bed.

“So you decide to come bother me?”

“Glad you understand.” The glow from Merlin’s phone casts Arthur in a soft, radiant light, and when Arthur speaks, he looks oddly vulnerable. “Merlin, please. Tell me about your life?”

Arthur’s gazing at him, hair rumpled and shirt wrinkled and eyes imploring— so, really, Merlin has no choice.

“Okay.”

And Merlin spins a lullaby out of stories about knights and lords, priests and churches, painters and poets and artists. He talks of Shakespeare and Milton and Raphael, of too many words read and too many wars to count. He talks and talks of the things he’s seen, the people he’s been, and doesn’t mention the wife and children he never had, doesn’t mention the boys he’s tried to love.

When they fall asleep, they’re stuck tight against one another, huddled under the blue covers.


	3. there's nobody home

Arthur still doesn’t quite know what to make of the shiny pine trees trussed up in baubles that’ve been popping up around every corner. He thought he’d finally gotten used to the sharp edges and unyielding lines that seem to dictate architecture these days—much less preferable to the stately curve of a turret, in his opinion—and then, almost overnight, sparkly trees had invaded every balcony and every windowfront, tossing their prickly needles at Arthur with glee.

Arthur’s all for some good, hearty festivity, stick in the mud that Merlin may peg him, but this sort of excess pushes way past his limits. Back in Camelot, Yuletide season had always been a cause for joy, a time to celebrate achievements past and the turning of a fresh year. All the same, he hardly recalls any members of the royal household donning themselves in tinsel and dancing up a jig with music to match. _That _particular seed of madness has apparently chosen this era to take root, what with little men, pointy hats, and big fuzzy stockings clamoring on the edges of Arthur’s vision wherever he wanders in Bristol.

When he’d first knocked a big, bow-wrapped box out of the hands of some portly old man, he’d grandly given an apology and offered any necessary compensation, sure that Merlin, had he been witness, would agree. Needless to say, he’d been suitably shocked when the man had turned around, smooth faced despite all that white hair, and shot him a rough “Watch where yer goin’, git!” Now, big chairs and red suits send him walking briskly in the opposite direction. It’s uncanny, really, all the long lines of small children. Where _do_ the parents go trotting off to? When Arthur had brought his concerns to Merlin after he’d gotten off A&E one day, the insolent twerp just laughed until he fell on the floor, tears streaming down his cheeks. So much for finding a kindred spirit in this whole matter of Christmas. 

So, the oversized boxes—three of them— that Merlin balances precariously in his arms as he waltzes through the door immediately set Arthur’s nerves on edge. He swears he has a sixth sense for all this nonsense, and the sight of green needles and tangled bulbs peeking over the cardboard sends tingles of foreboding prickling up his neck.

“What’s this?” Arthur demands, unease bleeding through his words.

“Hello to you, too,” Merlin chirps, wobbling a bit as he half-sets, half-drops the boxes onto the floor. The contents rattle out a dire warning. “I had a great day, thanks for asking. Only a couple broken bones—no ribs, thank God, those take _ages _to heal up— and nothing fatal. Well,” Merlin pauses to bounce into the kitchen, flinging open the fridge, “not that anything is fatal with me, but no strokes and the like. Nothing too dire.” Finally picking out an apple, he spins around, closing the fridge door with a kick of the foot. “And you, _sire_? Encounter any wayward Father Christmases today?”

Arthur narrows his eyes at the use of his old title, walking over and cuffing Merlin good-naturedly upside the head.

“I’ll pretend I knew what you were prattling on about. And I’m _telling you_,” Arthur jabs a finger in Merlin’s direction just as he bites into his apple with a crunch, “the attire. The beard.” He shudders. “It’s just unnatural.”

Merlin gasps, placing his free hand dramatically over his heart. “Is that what you thought of Dragoon, too?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. I thought that old wanker looked _unnaturally _familiar.” Arthur glares at Merlin meaningfully, but with no real malice. The first few days in Avalon, Merlin had followed every bit of his magic with a barely suppressed flinch, shooting Arthur furtive looks of concern—and maybe fear?— with eyes still tinged a faint gold. Frankly, Merlin’s act as a jittery mouse had quickly grown far more irritating than his magic, and Arthur had to grit his teeth, give Merlin a hard slap on the back, and order him to cut it out because they had dealt with the whole magic thing fifteen hundred years ago and Arthur hates rehashing the past.

“Well, in any case, he appreciated the piggyback ride.” A bit of juice dribbles down Merlin’s chin as he polishes off the apple core, and Arthur’s momentarily speechless at the glinting droplet set against pale skin and dark stubble. Merlin wipes at it absentmindedly with a sleeve, tossing the core in the direction of the rubbish. The bin rattles as the apple remains fall inside, and Merlin pumps a fist in victory.

“Score, mate!” And then, with a slight quirk of his eyebrows, “I’m taking you to play basketball sometime. I’ve actually gotten quite good at that over the centuries. Though sports _is_ the closest thing to battle these days, so you’ll probably still beat me.”

Arthur hums distractedly in answer, attention drawn back to the three bulky boxes and their taunting insides.

“What are those for?”

“Oh!” Merlin’s face glows impossibly brighter, until Arthur can hardly look at him for fear of burning his eyes. “Decorations.” He turns happily towards Arthur. “We’ve still a bit ‘til Christmas, but it’s your first time and I want you to have the full experience.”

Arthur backs away slowly, eying the boxes and Merlin in turn with horror. Maybe he could make a quick break for the door, go hide in the aisles of the nearest Tesco. But Merlin would probably magic him back in an instant, the bugger.

“No. Not a chance. As your former and possibly future king, I order that you burn those boxes immediately.” Arthur tries to put as much menace into the words as he can, but he makes the mistake of looking at Merlin’s brilliant smile, half-moon eyes and everything, and his protests come out sounding weak.

“Pish posh, Arthur. You did away with all that station business yourself. What was it that you said? It kept us apart?”

Arthur fights back a blush, not for the first time cursing the potency of whatever drinks they mulled in this new world. Though come to think of it, he’s oddly sure they hadn’t cracked open the Malibu until after.

“I know you’re a big softie,” Merlin continues, “don’t go all prat on me now.” He grabs Arthur’s arm, his grip warming down to Arthur’s skin through the thin material of his jumper, and lugs him towards the living room.

“Stay here.” With a shove, Merlin sends Arthur plopping down onto an armchair. Arthur opens his mouth, but his half-formed objection is lost as Merlin swivels back towards the doorway. Moments later, he reappears with the boxes in tow.

“This one,” he gestures to the leftmost box, “is the tree.”

Arthur involuntarily shudders, thinking of gruesome faces with ornaments for eyes and strung popcorn for a gaping smile.

Merlin barrels on, oblivious to Arthur’s inner terror. “I’d like to get lights up tonight, too, but I definitely want to finish the tree. You’ve seen Christmas trees around, right?”

Arthur pales as he nods.

“Lovely! So you know how it goes. Ornaments and lights and all that. We’ve got to set the tree up first, though.” He flips the box over, unceremoniously dumping out a pile of branches and spiky green needles. “C’mon, then. It’s your duty as a flatmate.” Merlin looks up at Arthur from under long lashes, curls mussed and cheeks pink, and any remaining complaints die in Arthur’s throat.

He still gives a loud sigh, just to show Merlin how insufferable he finds this whole thing, but Merlin’s smile stretches wide across his face even before the “Fine” leaves Arthur’s lips.

*

Alright, so Arthur may have been a bit unfair towards pine trees and fairy lights and Christmas in general. Watching Merlin laugh—ears flushed, mouth open, eyes glinting— as he twirls around, throwing tinsel in loops around the tree, Arthur could almost see the appeal in the holiday that made people start celebrating an entire month early. Almost.

With Merlin’s inexhaustible vigor and Arthur’s grudging help, they had just about decked out the poor tree to the max. Delicate glass ornaments hung from silver thread on each jutting branch, sending the light from the tree sparking off at every angle. Besides the standard multicolor ornament set, Merlin had also taken the liberty of getting an assortment of carefully crafted charms and figurines. Symbols, he’d said with a shy smile, ducking his head a bit before hanging up a small ceramic dragon. After a chalice— “not happy unless we’re dying for each other, eh?”— a sword— “by the way, am I ever getting that back?”— a shield— “for your inner bloodthirsty knight”— and a staff— “added a nice touch to the mad sorcerer look, I must say”— they’d stepped back to admire their handiwork, shoulders bumping under the soft glow of the lights. Then, Merlin had caught Arthur’s eyes and lifted up his palm, presenting a fragile crystal crown. (“You’ll always be my king, Arthur.”)

Arthur remembers times back in Camelot when he or Merlin would catch the other looking, gaze intense and burning. They’d stare at each other, stopped, suspended by the growing pupils and heating skin, the space between them pulsing with intent and all the things they’d left unsaid. But inevitably, one of them would turn away, thinking of duty or propriety or destiny, the moment left to crack and shatter into pieces beneath their feet. After he’d come stumbling out of the snow and into the musty kitchen of Merlin’s place at Avalon, Arthur had half-hoped that whatever, _whatever_, they’d always had simmering between them had diminished, calmed a bit after a thousand years.

He’d been _so_ wrong, and he finds it hard to care.

Picking up the crown with careful fingers, Arthur had whispered a thank you and looked into darkening eyes and down at wet lips. They’d stood and stared and Arthur could feel everything thrumming, the air too-warm and pushing them together. And Arthur had decided that whatever they’d had— that they _have_— had gone on long enough already, so he’d let his eyes drop closed and leaned in.

Merlin just coughed, loudly, and told him to put up his crown.

The tree, laden down from decorations, now winks cozily at them from next to the telly. Merlin’s perched up on a chair, arms raised over his head as he lines fairy lights up on hooks around the ceiling. Arthur blinks at the display of pale skin stretching above Merlin’s low-hanging waistband and shakes his head. He’s fairly certain that this _thing _between them is mutual, has been pretty much since he’d thrown Merlin a smirk and asked if he knew how to walk on his knees. So why did Merlin stop? He knows he should probably just bring it up, talk it out like they’ve talked about almost everything else that had passed. Still, Arthur’s brave, but he’s not _that _brave, and the very thought of sitting Merlin down and discussing their _feelings _sends waves of nausea roiling through his stomach. He’ll just wait it out, he decides. Maybe this time, Merlin didn’t expect Arthur to respond so enthusiastically, was caught-off guard and stuttered. But they’ve bound to have another incident soon enough— moments that used to come in twos and threes now come in tens and twelves— and Arthur can study Merlin more carefully then.

“There.” Merlin sighs, stepping down from the chair. Twinkling lights outline the entire room, sparkling down from the walls and putting stars in Merlin’s eyes.

“Beautiful.” Arthur says, and he’s not sure whether he’s talking about the room or the person.

Merlin coughs and turns towards the table. For a moment, Arthur thinks he spots a blush making its way up his cheekbones.

“We just have the star left.” Merlin picks up a five-pointed star of spun glass, coiled wires nestled at its base.

“Aren’t stars supposed to be gold?”

“Yeah, but I’ve had this one forever. Bought it at an artisan market a while back. It was too pretty.” He gives a rueful grin, fingering the smooth surface of the tree-topper. “Let’s put it up together.”

“Together?”

“Yeah. You on one side, me on another. First Christmas, and all that.” The tips of Merlin’s ears are red, but Arthur can’t be sure that’s not a lingering effect from the eggnog.

“Alright.” Arthur’s horrified that he didn’t even try to object, no matter in however half-hearted a fashion. “Let’s go.” He leads the way, whispering “_girl_” conspiratorially at Merlin behind him.

When Merlin beams at him from across the tree, the light shining through the star casting shimmers of blue on his face, Arthur thinks that he doesn’t really mind Christmas. 


	4. swore i'd never lose control

“That,” Arthur says pointedly, “is completely inappropriate.”

Claire clamps her knees around Bender’s head, and the students all make various sneezing and coughing noises to mask Bender’s loud yelp.

“I know,” Merlin agrees, shifting Arthur’s legs into a more comfortable position on his lap. “I guess that’s the point, though.”

They’d dimmed the lights in the living room, and the glow from the telly, coupled with the offhand twinkle from the Christmas tree, makes Arthur’s profile look vaguely ethereal. Merlin sneaks a glance at Arthur from behind a handful of popcorn, then quickly turns his gaze back towards Vernon’s spit-mouthed raging. He hadn’t thought that Arthur would particularly enjoy _The Breakfast Club_, seeing as he knows next to nothing about the social complexities of secondary school, but he’d rather gut himself than watch another action film. Besides, Merlin had picked up on the eager glint in Arthur’s eye during the Bride’s rampage against the Crazy 88, and he really doesn’t want to deal with another lecture from Freya on the responsibility that comes with summoning Excalibur. At any rate, Merlin’s pretty sure that when the time comes, Arthur won’t need Excalibur for killing things so much as bringing them to life. So, definitely best not to feed him too much Tarantino.

Surprisingly, Arthur’s relatively engrossed in the film, piping up with comments whenever the characters do something unusual or suggestive. Merlin’s seen _The Breakfast Club _about a dozen times since he’d snagged a DVD copy in the nineties, so he only keeps half a mind on the screen.

He can’t help marveling at how easily Arthur had acclimated to the modern world. Yes, there’d been a few a few mishaps— walking outside in nothing but pants, microwaving pasta without water and setting off the entire building’s fire alarm, nearly getting run over more times than Merlin could count— but overall, Arthur’s adaptability proves rather remarkable. Before, when Merlin had dared to imagine Arthur’s return, he’d always thought that Arthur would march out demanding to be fitted in armor, challenging the first officer who told him he couldn’t brandish a mace at strangers. Instead, after skimming through two volumes of _A History of Western Society_— during which he'd spat out some extremely choice words about a few subsequent English monarchs— Arthur had adjusted quite rapidly. Now, he spends his time lounging around in V-necks and surfing Google for images of “King Arthur.”

Even so, Merlin has a sneaking suspicion that the surety Arthur projects, the casual manner he treats his revival, just serves to mask the magnitude of his loss— a kingdom and a wife in one fell swoop.

Arthur, of course, had apparently taken the news of his protracted absence in stride, his face briefly crumpling before straightening out, smooth and impassive. “I died.” He’d said simply. “I mourned the loss of my past when they mourned for me.” And Merlin, concerningly enough, hasn’t yet picked up on any signs of a hidden, indelible pain. But perhaps he can't read Arthur quite as well as he’d thought.

The feet in his lap twitch, and Merlin looks up to Arthur crinkling his eyes in confusion as Bender thrusts a fist in the air, diamond earring in hand, triumphant.

“I don’t understand.” Arthur furrows his brows at Merlin.

“There’s a surprise.” The feet draw up and kick lightly at Merlin’s thighs.

“I’m serious. Don’t they hate each other? Bender _despises _Claire.”

“Not really, no.” Merlin steeples his fingers under his chin and smiles slightly at Arthur. “It’s a little bit of a grab for attention, a little bit of a defence mechanism. In Freudian theory, probably reaction formation. He feels one way so he acts the opposite.”

Arthur’s already turned away, lazily flipping through Netflix on the telly. Merlin tugs sharply on Arthur’s legs. “Didn’t you want to know?”

“Hey! I do, but I’m not going talk to you when you’re being a _know-it-all_.”

“Am _not_.” Merlin tries to pinpoint the exact time in his life when he’d started unabashedly borrowing retorts from toddlers. Probably the first day on the job as Arthur’s manservant.

“Oh, please. Not everyone’s been alive for a thousand years, _Mer_lin. Just tell it to me straight.”

“Fine. My fault for thinking you wanted to learn something. Basically, Bender likes Claire, thinks she’s pretty. But she’s not the type of girl he’s used to, and he doesn’t know what to do about it. So, he insults her. Taunts her. Makes her angry. Simple enough for you?”

Strangely, Merlin seems to have finally captured Arthur’s attention. Arthur leans forward, pulling his legs back and resting his arms on his knees. The sudden loss of warmth makes Merlin’s heart thump sadly.

“And what about Claire?” Arthur asks, fixing Merlin with an oddly focused stare.

“Well, at first she’s disgusted, obviously. Bender’s an absolute bully, and she hates how he treats everyone like shit. But she’s also intrigued. She doesn’t deal with delinquents much, either, and later on she pretty much sees where all his pain is coming from.”

“But she has to like him back, too? She kissed him.”

“Yeah. Well, Judd Nelson isn’t exactly ugly. And, I mean, she can tell he’s a good guy— noble, even— underneath the whole rough and tough act. That’s why she knows he wouldn’t have done it first.”

Arthur looks expectantly at Merlin, and Merlin suddenly wonders if he’s even talking about Claire at all. The blue upholstery squeaks as Arthur scooches forward, cornering Merlin at the end of the futon. His toes brush against Merlin’s pyjama trousers, and Merlin wonders vaguely if his life has suddenly also evolved into some sort of teenage rom-com.

“I disagree,” Arthur whispers, his breath warm against Merlin. “He would’ve kissed her. Eventually.”

Arthur leans forward, gaze dropping, his body heat soft and reassuring like a gentle hug. And Merlin _wants_, he does, wants to let their lips brush and noses bump, wants to slip a hand under the loose cotton of his shirt and touch the strong curve of his back. He’s wanted Arthur for so long he doesn’t remember what it’s like to not want. Had wanted him even before, with tempered touches tender as he'd bathed him and dressed him and healed his ailing body. But the better part of him, the sensible part, screams that Arthur’s just lost Gwen and he’s lonely, hurt, doesn’t know what he’s doing.

Merlin stops Arthur with a hand to his shoulder.

“Arthur.”

“Merlin.” Arthur blinks, and Merlin’s terrified at the sudden hurt pooling and shining in his eyes. “My apologies. I misjudged. It won’t happen again.”

“No, you didn’t.” Merlin corrects, too loud, too vehement. “It’s not that I don’t want to,” he adds, softer. “I do, you have no idea.” A dry chuckle.

“Then, why?” Thankfully, Arthur seems less upset. He wrinkles his forehead, befuddled.

“Gwen. You miss her.” Merlin clenches and unclenches his toes, doesn’t want to have this conversation with Arthur. “I won't be a substitute, Arthur. That’s one thing I can’t do for you.”

Somehow, Arthur doesn’t even consider Merlin’s words, just tilts his head back in surprise and laughs. His gaze is soft when he meets Merlin’s eyes. _He’s figured it out_, Merlin thinks with cold dread building in his stomach. _He knows how much I _care.

“Gee, thanks. I’m glad you think it’s funny.” Bitterness twisting in his gut, Merlin makes an abortive move to stand up, but Arthur pulls him down with a hand on his arm.

“No, Merlin. Gwen and I made our peace a long time ago.”

Merlin stops trying to fight Arthur’s grip, settling down in confusion.

“What do you mean? At Camlann?”

“No, after. When I was… _gone_,” Arthur pauses to think, tongue poking through his teeth, then continues, “I was in a kind of limbo between life and death. If I concentrated hard enough, I could feel the real world, keep it separated from the spirits. But I could also talk with the spirits, the others, if I focused on keeping my form steady.”

“That’s amazing," Merlin breathes. "You never told me.” He's always speculated on the specific goings-on of life after death. He'd figured that some sort of sentience remains intact, or else Uther wouldn't have gone all ballistic after Arthur summoned him. Still, the sort of limbo Arthur describes would definitely mean some intricate balance of magic, and he makes a mental note to research it later.

Arthur shrugs helplessly. “It took me a bit to recover my memories after I came back. And you never asked.”

“I didn’t think you wanted to talk about it. The past. The people.”

“I’ll always cherish Camelot.” Arthur says seriously. “My kingdom, my people, my friends. But they passed from your world to mine. And,” Arthur looks at Merlin intently, as if to make sure he’s listening, “Gwen found Lancelot, first thing after she died. Said she spent her whole life wondering what would’ve happened if she stopped him from leaving— the first time, that night in the forest. Said she didn’t want to wonder anymore.”

Merlin opens his mouth, ready to offer comfort, but Arthur interrupts. 

“I found them. Merged myself with the spirits, just so I could give them my blessing. Told Lancelot that I should’ve stopped him first.”

“Arthur…” What’s he trying to say?

“Gwen knew, you know. I was in our bed and muttering your name in my sleep.” Arthur places a hand over Merlin’s, smiling with something like nostalgia. “I’ve had a long time since to come to terms with it. I know I’m bad at this—” Merlin chuckles tearfully at that, sounding slightly choked. “—don’t laugh, it’s true. But,” Arthur takes a deep breath, lifts his hand to lightly brush a curl away from Merlin’s face. “can I kiss you?”

And that’s such a stupid question that Merlin has to lean forward and press his lips to Arthur’s. His mouth is soft and wet, he tastes sweet from the Coke and salty from the popcorn, and the blood sizzles in Merlin's veins as he moves against him, singing _finally_, _finally_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some references:
> 
> Bender looking up Claire's skirt [here](https://youtu.be/7OFROViP0J0?t=90).  
Claire kissing Bender [here](https://youtu.be/TwRfZ-z-nX4?t=46).  
The Crazy 88 [here](https://youtu.be/a3aFv8IQb4s?t=275).  
Final scene with Bender [here](https://youtu.be/Sv1I4q6lOpo?t=34).


	5. then i fell in love

“Remind me,” Arthur trails off, briefly distracted by the form of a naked man with a rather large buttocks slouched head-first in the shower, “why we’re here again?”

Merlin hums, magnifying glass in hand, avidly examining a painting of two women with wide-eyed stares and ridiculously frilled collars, each holding a wooden board of an infant in their arms. Arthur takes a moment to remind himself why he puts up with the idiot, then smiles as he remembers Merlin’s long, skilled fingers, his expanse of smooth bare skin, soft beneath fingertips, dappled in the moonlight.

_“Mer_lin!” An old doddery couple shoots him an insulted glare, and he hastily grins back, throwing his hands up in apology. “Merlin,” he says, softer, tugging insistently on the back of Merlin’s jacket. Merlin turns, eyes taking a bit to refocus on Arthur.

“What?”

“_Why _are we here?” Arthur crosses his arms petulantly, distantly aware that he’s behaving like a child but not bothering to care.

“I thought you wanted to visit London?” Merlin mimics Arthur’s stance, frowning. “Bargaining a winter hol at A&E isn’t easy. You should’ve told me earlier if you wanted to stay.”

“Not _London_.” Arthur says, but still tempers the annoyance in his tone. Having Merlin drag him around the city, jabbering on about history, face alit with excitement probably makes top three of his favourite memories of Merlin so far. Favourite memories in general, come to think of it. Not that he’s been counting. “Why are we looking at _art_?”

Arthur recalls the carts of jewelry and crafts lining the streets in Camelot, mostly the work of women seeking to sell an odd trinket or two when the fields lay fallow. He’d thought the objects useless then, novelties to please the eye and capable of nothing practical. Now, he realises that he shouldn’t have dismissed them so easily— all the charms and weavings and carvings. At least they were pretty.

“It’s part of the prophecy. Can’t argue with destiny, now, can I?” Merlin has the gall to raise an eyebrow cheekily, tapping his foot.

“Somehow, I doubt fate ordered me to look at _this_ rubbish.” Arthur gestures towards what looks like the bottom half of a rag doll, with long stockinged legs curving over a wooden chair. Arms (or ears?) protrude out from the top of its torso, hanging forward past its body like limp worms.

“Oh!” Merlin brightens in recognition. “Sarah Lucas! See, it’s a bunny, provides quite incisive commentary on the female disempowerment—”

“_Merlin!_ I. Don’t. Care.” Arthur punctuates each word with a poke of Merlin’s shoulder. “If you’re interested in this… _drivel_, look at it by yourself. Don’t drag me into it.” It comes out harsher than he intends, but they’d skipped breakfast for a lie in, and though that _did _admittedly feel great, now his stomach is growling in anger and they’re trapped inside because it won’t stop bloody _raining_.

Merlin’s face falls. “I wasn’t kidding, you ass. You need to learn the culture of _your people_ if you’re going to make any headway in politics. And university. At this rate, you’ll flunk out before half term.” He chews his lip, glaring at Arthur furiously. “_And _I thought maybe you’d like to see the stuff I’m interested in. For once.”

To his horror, before Arthur can stop himself, he replies, “Why would you ever think _that_?”

Merlin spins back towards the frame with the two women, thrusting the magnifying glass in front of his face, knuckles white on the handle. Arthur gets knocked back by Merlin’s arm, but not before noticing his tightly shut eyes.

Shit. He’s so used to trading insults with Merlin that it’s ingrained into him by now, a knee-jerk reaction. Before, it had been somewhat of a— what did Merlin call it?— defence mechanism, but now there’s really no excuse. Even Arthur can tell the difference between teasing and acting like a complete arsehole. Well, he’s getting better at it.

Arthur approaches Merlin carefully, touching his collar. Merlin stills.

“Look, Merlin, I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry.” Another thing he’s gotten better at— apologies. He’d owed a lot of those to Merlin, especially after a whole afterlife spent figuring out just how _much _Merlin had secretly sacrificed for him. Tentatively, he presses a kiss against Merlin’s temple, standing on tiptoe. “I’m just frustrated with the weather. But I do want to know about what you’ve been up to.” He puts as much honesty as he can into his tone, hoping Merlin notices.

Merlin turns around and looks at Arthur, eyes thankfully dry. “You’re still a pompous git.” Merlin sighs, but he grabs one of Arthur’s hands, linking their fingers together.

Arthur figures he’s forgiven, but he’s still going to make an effort.

“What about that one, the blue one over there?” Arthur points to a painting of a bridge, the structure overshadowing the silhouette of a man pacing underneath.

“Whistler. _Nocturne in Blue and Gold_.” Merlin recites immediately, then smiles, bringing Arthur closer to the painting. “It’s a night view of the Thames.”

“Not a very descriptive title,” Arthur quips, examining the work. It’s not unbearable to look at, the faint sheen of all-over blue and the gold accents give it a nice touch, but the man and the buildings are far from realistic. He tells Merlin so himself, and Merlin huffs a bit in laughter.

“It’s Impressionism. Post-Impressionism, really. The point back then wasn’t to be realistic— that was way too proper. They weren’t trying to share the scenery. They were trying to share a _feeling_.”

“Ah. Feelings.” The word leaves his mouth with mild distaste. But he looks at Merlin, at his dark, ruffled curls and heart-shaped mouth, and thinks that if he could make something that spoke of shuddering breaths and a racing heart, then maybe he’d do it too.

“James was a good lad. American. Pretty sure there’s a portrait he did for me floating around somewhere.” Merlin turns his head a bit. “Might have supported slavery, though. Not sure on that one.”

Arthur runs a hand through Merlin’s hair. “Bet I could do better.”

“What, a stick figure in the mud?”

“You don’t believe me?” Arthur gapes in mock offence. “I’ll show you.”

He looks around the room, searching for a way to prove his point, but finds only gilded frames on white walls. “Hm. Did you want to stay longer?”

“No, that’s fine,” Merlin shakes his head, confused. “But we can’t leave, it’s still storming. Unless you want to Uber a block.”

Arthur smirks slyly, hating how absolutely maudlin he’s turned.

“Let’s just go wait at the entrance.”

He pulls Merlin, hand in hand, towards the gallery exit and down the winding stairwell. Rows upon rows of columns and arches greet them on every level, and Arthur’s mildly affronted. Funny how these people decide to honour the architecture of the Greeks and the Romans, but not the regal, stolid structure of his own time. Castles look so much better.

They come upon hordes of people in the lobby, all clucking impatiently in parkas and dripping umbrellas. Arthur squeezes through the crowds to the glass wall front, dragging Merlin along with apologies on every breath. When they halt before the glass, Arthur narrows his eyes craftily at Merlin.

“Watch.”

He turns towards the panel, shielding Merlin from what he’s doing with his back. A hot breath works to fog up the surface, and he lifts a finger to mark his waiting canvas, avoiding the backwards “Tate” printed on the other side of the glass. Water slicks his fingertip as he works, clinging and seeping into his skin, and he chuckles at just how disgustingly _cheesy _what he’s going to show Merlin is.

When he's finished, Arthur steps aside, motioning for Merlin to see his handiwork. "Okay, look."

Merlin rolls his eyes fondly and looks at the glass.

_ur beautiful _♡

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Artwork references, all located in Tate Britain:
> 
> David Hockney, [_Man in Shower in Beverly Hills_](https://www.tate.org.uk/art/artworks/hockney-man-in-shower-in-beverly-hills-t03074), 1964  
Unknown artist, [_The Cholmondeley Ladies_](https://www.tate.org.uk/art/artworks/unknown-artist-britain-the-cholmondeley-ladies-t00069), c. 1600-10  
Sarah Lucas, [_Pauline Bunny_](https://www.tate.org.uk/art/artworks/lucas-pauline-bunny-t07437), 1997  
James Abbott McNeill Whistler, [_Nocturne: Blue and Gold - Old Battersea Bridge_](https://www.tate.org.uk/art/artworks/whistler-nocturne-blue-and-gold-old-battersea-bridge-n01959), c. 1872-5


	6. with a heart that beats so slow

Merlin’s alarm wakes him with a light jingle. Heavy-limbed and groaning, he haphazardly gropes for the snooze on his mobile.

Sunlight washes around the curtains, seeping Merlin’s bedroom in blurry amber. Beside him, Arthur’s soft snores punctuate the peaceful quiet, his arm slung snugly around Merlin's waist.

Merlin silences the alarm with a quick slide, making a face at the time.

7:00 am.

It’s an absolute wonder any place is open this early, especially on Christmas morning.

His magic tingles and surges inside him in excitement, anticipating the scale of what he has in mind. Back in Camelot, the lack of certainty— his and Gaius’ both—of the sheer extent of his powers had awed him and terrified him in equal measures. And now, though magic had seemed to fade away from the land—no dragons, no creatures, no warlocks— Merlin’s pretty sure that all the missing magic just comes and piles up inside _him_. If he concentrates, he can even feel it— little sparks of the stuff bubbling and bursting inside him like a sky after the storm, a breath of fresh air.

And he loves using it to heal, to help, loves putting his gift of Life and Death or whatnot to good practice, but it’s been a bit since he’s funneled his magic towards something more _mischievous_.

Arthur grunts, latching his arm tighter around Merlin. An involuntary smile spreads across Merlin’s face, and he gently pulls Arthur closer against his chest, pressing a kiss to his exposed shoulder blade. In the pale shimmer of dawn, he glows almost golden, all flaxen hair and smooth skin and parted pink lips, and Merlin’s breath gets caught somewhere in his throat.

This had been his favourite part of serving Arthur, he thinks. Having the privilege to see him first, bare and sleep-tousled and raw, before councils and pages and knights.

On an average day, he’d slink back into the bed, into Arthur, nose to nose and chest to chest, breathe in Arthur’s scent and let sleep wash over him like a rising tide. But today, he has preparations to make.

Arthur, Merlin finds, is a difficult lad to shop for. They hadn’t explicitly discussed the whole business of exchanging presents on Christmas, but the gift-giving craze creeps in on all sides, from storefront posters to radio shows to telly adverts. The tradition may have developed after Arthur’s time, but even he can’t have missed the meaning behind the flashy “For Him” and “For Her” signs that glare out like demons from on screen and behind glass.

Arthur’s always been picky, of course, meticulous in his demands of Merlin and his men, strait-laced in what he expects from himself. And judging from the various displays of mockery and displeasure Arthur had granted towards his presents each birthday, Merlin knows he’s only got a narrow window through which to make this first Christmas _right_.

What does Arthur want, more than anything? The glib side of him— a side that reminds Merlin of Gwaine altogether way too much— flippantly whispers _you, Merlin_, and, honestly, he can’t even be certain that’s not true. But though the thought of wrapping himself up in a bow and jumping out of a giant cake _has _briefly occurred to him, he’s sure Arthur, forever a pragmatist, would probably appreciate something more useful.

To be fair, the jacket he’d spotted hanging in the window at Nordstrom also possibly fails the criteria of practical value. That one, though, he’d ended up buying, if spurred mostly by the beatific vision of Arthur clad in rich, Camelot red leather.

Arthur, Merlin has decided, wants to _wanted_. Not in a romantic sense, really, but in the sense of him as a leader, a commander. Arthur may have had the occasional gripe about his duties as King, but Merlin would’ve been an idiot not to catch the shine and the tears whenever he’d addressed the crowds, claps and cheers raining down on him like drops of sunlight. And now, even though Arthur busies himself learning the city and flipping through textbooks, Merlin can tell by the way he stands sometimes, shoulders slightly hunched and looking a little lost, that he feels just a bit useless.

So, for Christmas, Merlin had settled on gifting him a quest. A mission.

Cross-legged on the sofa and eyes squeezed shut, Merlin reaches out with tendrils of magic, probes at the bread and the ham and the lettuce resting on shelves and in boxes in the nearest grocery shop, and tugs, just a tad. Somewhere, miles away, tens of a small store’s backroom boxes disappear without so much as a wink. As kilos upon kilos of the provisions tumble through quantum space and towards their doorstep, Merlin finishes off the job with a quick modification to their inventory and boost to their register.

He’s just finished ushering all the food through the door and under the tree when Arthur pads in, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes. When he catches sight of what Merlin’s doing, his arm falls with a dull thump.

“Merlin... _goodness_. We’re two of us, not ten. And I don’t even _like_ ham.”

“Stop being dense, Arthur. Happy Christmas!” Merlin throws his hands out expansively, grinning at all the food stacked in mounds behind him. A loaf of bread slips and topples softly to the floor.

“Have you gone mad?”

“Well. We’ve talked about the homeless in this city quite a lot. I know I told you there’s not much I can do—magically speaking, that is— to alter someone else’s life’s course. But I thought, maybe we don’t have to _alter_ it, necessarily.” Merlin waves an arm out behind him. “But we can maybe make their lives better.”

“Merlin,” Arthur intones, a grin rearranging itself slowly on his face. He fingers the plastic wrapping of a nearby head of lettuce. “You know what? That idea’s not half-bad.”

“Really? You think? Because I wasn’t sure whether or not you’d like it, it’ll be a bit of work, obviously— I mean, we don’t have to _make _all the sandwiches, my magic’ll take care of that— but we’ll have to walk around and give them out—we could’ve just gone to a shelter, but I thought you’d want to help in a more personal way—” Merlin’s stopped with a kiss that burns up and rushes all the way to his toes.

“Shut up, Merlin.” Arthur says, tone hoarse. “It’s wonderful.”

Merlin smiles happily at Arthur and tries to pull him in for another kiss, but Arthur ducks and holds him out at arm's length.

“Now, now, just keep your grubby hands to yourself for a second." He narrows his eyes, smirking conspiratorially. "I believe it's my turn?”

“You _didn't_," Merlin drawls, batting his eyelashes. Still, he takes a moment to school his face in expectation, mentally preparing for anything that Arthur might present him. Gifts from Arthur in the past have included an apple, a new polishing cloth, a half-eaten hunk of ham, and—the gleaming highlight— used smallclothes, though he thinks that’d be slightly less excusable in this era. 

Arthur reaches under the futon, brushing aside the velvet skirt—“I hid it after you passed out in the afternoon”— and pulls out a flat, rectangular thing sloppily wrapped in paper that announces 'CELEBRATE JESUS!'

“Here.” Arthur hands the package to Merlin, then hovers by his side, fiddling with his fingers.

Merlin rips open the package.

A swath of gold paint peeks out at him from the tear he’s made in the paper. Merlin furrows his brow and tears more urgently, paper flying up and out of the way, until he has in his hands a large piece of gilded canvas. Layers of gold paint in all different shades meddle and weld together, thickening and thinning, easing and flowing in every direction; metallic chunks build together in some places and vanish in others, the texture rough or soft or scratchy but never the same. Merlin looks from the painting to Arthur and back to the painting, words choking and dying in his throat.

“Well…” Arthur shuffles his feet. “It’s like your eyes. When you do magic.”

“Arthur…” Merlin whispers, when he trusts himself to speak. He meets Arthur’s gaze, chest tight and constricted and too small for his heart. “D’you know why I love art? I think it’s the last thing we have that’s magic.”

Arthur gives a wobbly smile, his hands abortively reaching for Merlin before dropping down to his sides. “So, do you like it?”

“Yes,” Merlin breathes, grabbing Arthur with a free arm and clutching him tight. “I love it.” He presses a long kiss into Arthur’s lips, hiccuping slightly into his mouth.

Arthur pulls back, and his breath wavers a bit as he says,

“I love you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, that's it! Thanks to everyone who read! You can catch up with me on [tumblr](http://orthogonals.tumblr.com)!


End file.
